


where i feel at home

by sunflowerwilde



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-World War II, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-05-25 15:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14979905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwilde/pseuds/sunflowerwilde
Summary: Something had been severed between Bucky and Steve. Bucky could never figure out how to bridge them back together, but he needs him now more than ever.There's something strange going on in his apartment building. His neighbors keep him up at night with their hushed, urgent voices snapping orders and contriving plans - but he's the only one who hears them. And he can't tell if he's losing his mind or not.





	1. Chapter 1

Everything was changing. New York was evolving, and each day, Bucky noticed something he never had before, as if every morning he awakened with a clearer set of eyes impervious to the hazy veil looming over Brooklyn.

The change created a certain charge in the air, like it was carried in the wind and hailed from the steel gray clouds. It made Bucky’s hair stand up. He sensed the impending doom of its thunder.

He used to look forward to the future, until the war aged him, making his old intrigue for the prospects of the future seem like distant, childlike dreams—dreams he had so long ago let go. That person in him, the one who dreamed, grew and planted his feet to root him in the world he knew, before it became something he no longer recognized.

“Watch it, pal.” Bucky lowered his stack of boxes to see a man with ruddy cheeks and a smart tweed coat glaring at him. “I’m walking—” the man stopped, catching a glimpse of Bucky. He averted his eyes down and away, muttering an apology underneath his breath while he trotted by, even though Bucky was the one to crash into him.

Not that Bucky was going to apologize. He was walking with all of his possessions stuffed in boxes he could barely see over, and he was in a foul mood for having to pack them up in the first place—not to mention balance it all in one arm.

There had been a fire at his old place. It was nobody’s fault, so Bucky was angry at no one in particular, which meant sometimes he was angry at everyone.

A furnace imploded in someone’s apartment, hatching their place before the fire spread across several more, igniting each adjacent apartment like a row of matchsticks. It didn’t get to obliterate all of them before the firefighters intervened, but it was deemed hazardously inhabitable for tenants to remain living there. Bucky and the other surviving occupants had little time to gather up what was left of their belongings to find a new place.

Considering he didn’t know many of the neighbors personally, sometimes he felt guilty for mourning his home more than the people who lost their lives.

But it was _his_ place. And it was nice to have things to your name, especially in America’s precarious economic system.

He didn’t have to fret too long about being homeless, though. There was an apartment for veterans downtown and his application was approved the same day he handed it in, which he knew the hurried acceptance—without so much as an interview—was due to his handicap rather than his made up references or his prolific resume as Sergeant James Barnes.

He was on his way there now, to plant more roots and pray they didn’t get destroyed, too. Starting over was never easy, and since the war he’d been in nothing but an infinite loop of restarts.

Worry swelled in the pit of his stomach, the leaden weight made every step along the bustling sidewalk an effort. The city’s life rumbled underneath him, the vibration of the subway in each of his feet.

It was hard to unlearn the sound of the trains screeching, but how quickly one became immune to it.

Bucky wondered when it reverted for him. He was alert to every screech, every passerby, as a gawking foreigner might be, looking for a sense of familiarity in his own hometown. He walked through a flock of oversized pigeons and their watchful, accusing eyes. At least that much hadn’t changed.

When he reached the hulking building he now called home, he realized it didn’t look too different from his old place, only less dilapidated. The facade was made up of red brick and fire escapes, some of which were adorned with laundry along the railings to dry. There was a huge stoop in the front and most of the windows were open, inviting wind that undulated the matching white drapes in each apartment.

Bucky already met the landlord, a small hunched back man with a balding head, who gave him a set of keys and a warning of _no funny business_ without ever looking Bucky in the eye. People struggled to do that these days, and when they did, they often apologized with them. Bucky still couldn’t figure out if the apologies were like the _I’m sorry for your loss_ ones or the _I feel guilty even though it wasn’t my fault_ ones. Maybe it was a mix of both. Everyone was always feeling empathetic for soldiers after the war. Even ones they didn’t know personally.

Especially if they were missing a limb.

His apartment was number 17A, which he found down a stuffy corridor made of wood panels, reverberating with chatter from someone’s radio.

Inside was decent, or at least all he needed. It was barely bigger than a shoebox with hardwood floors that creaked beneath his weight and a narrow kitchen made of cracked tile floors, equipped with a raucous humming refrigerator and a gas stove. The walls were painted pale yellow but stained brown with a matching stained roof. Pipes rushed noisily whenever someone flushed their toilet in some other part of the building, but Bucky didn’t mind much.

A leaky roof was still a roof, and the four walls still made a home. And it was in his name.

He sat down his boxes, retrieved his sheets from them, and made up the dusty cot in the center of the floor for a nap.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i plan for this to be a short fic, as i've only outlined five chapters, but since i've cut the first one in half i'm not really sure how many will truly come out of this. honestly, i don't know what THIS even is. it came into fruition after imagining several scenarios involving bucky as a detective in the 1950s, yet that isn't what this is at all.
> 
> i feel the need to warn you that plot has never been my strong suit. i like to think i'm good at writing moments, so formulating an entire fic is, and has always been, hard for me. my plots always suffer because they're usually unrealistic, convoluted situations loosely strung together as afterthoughts for the characters and i hate that. i wish i was one of those people who didn't care what their writing sounded like because it's just fanfiction, but i care toooo much. i want to write things i like, whether it be in fic or my original projects. i used to be able to regard them differently, but idk, i guess i just can't anymore. i want my writing to be good, regardless of what it's for, like i could write a fucking makeup review and that foundation would go through a hero's journey in a three act structure before i say if it's good or not.
> 
> i don't know why this turned into a rant when it's literally not that deep???? i don't have any social media anymore so this is my only outlet. BASICALLY, i've latched onto this fandom to develop my writing style and therefore produced this mess and outlined several other different messes to put out is the REAL POINT.


	2. Chapter 2

_желание_

_ржавый_

Bucky tossed in his sleep, his damp hair clinging to his pillow. He kicked blankets away from his feverish skin. The breeze circulating through the opened window did little to expel the heat. The voices continued, seeping into his unconscious mind. Distantly, he felt the tensing of his body, but he couldn’t discern which parts were the dream and which were real.

He swore the words started to get louder, more fervent. Stuffing a pillow against his ear, he cursed for not being able to cover the other one. He rolled over instead, his uncovered ear against the bed.

Facing the window, he saw daylight faded into darkness. He slept longer than he meant to. He wondered if the neighbor had company tonight and if that’s why they were being so loud.

_семнадцать_

_рассвет_

_печь_

What were they shouting about? Those next few set of words sounded closer, as if they were coming in right behind his head. He sat up. Sliding a hand along the wall, he felt the words vibrating through the plaster.

 _Is this what I’ll have to deal with living here?_ He was going to put a stop to it before things got any worse. He pushed out of bed, pulled a shirt over his head, and stalked out of his apartment.

The hall was silent until he pounded his fist—once, then twice, against the neighbor’s door. Nothing happened. No one came to answer. He pressed his ear to the wood, listening for sounds of movement.

“Hello? Anyone home?” Silence. He knocked again. “Hey, look, I know you’re in there. Do you mind just keeping it down? I’m trying to sleep.”

The sound of a lock unlatching made him stop, but the noise came from somewhere behind him. He turned to the source. It was a guy no older than he was, leaning his weight onto a cane. He poked his hooked nose just passed the door.

“What are you doing? No one lives there,” He said.

“What do you mean? I heard someone talking.”

“Not from there you didn’t.” He gestured with his cane, and Bucky could see the strain the small movement caused him. “No one’s lived there since Danvers packed up and left six months ago.”

“Then who the hell is in there?”

The man looked prepared to close the door, his eyebrows threaded together. It didn’t look like confusion, more like distrust. Bucky realized the man was looking at him as if he were crazy.

“I think you should get some sleep.” The man said, nodding his head slowly as if to encourage a child, or a man without any wits.

Bucky grit his teeth, but it was his first night there; he didn’t want to cause a scene. He packed his pride away and went back to his room.

 

Midnight crept up on him, stupor beckoning him back to bed, but he refused it, taking a swig of his bourbon from the bottle, his back pressed to his headboard. He knew he wasn’t crazy. He heard voices. Maybe there were homeless people squatting next door, escaping in and out through the fire escape under the landlord’s nose.

Bucky was going to catch them. He didn’t have the intention to rat them out, he just wanted to know he was still sane.

_возвращение домой_

Bucky jumped up, spilling his liquor down the front of his shirt, but he didn’t care. He pressed his ear to the wall. Suddenly, his head began to throb. He’d been plagued with migraines since the war. He wouldn’t let it best him now. He massaged his temple as he dashed out of his apartment and shimmied the neighbor’s doorknob.

Much to his surprise, it was open. He glanced around the dark hallway, swooping low to a crouch to blend into the shadows, and he stepped in, his heart racing in his chest. The apartment was like a mirror of Bucky’s, stained walls and stained ceiling. Dusty. _Empty_. And frigid.

He checked the closets, the tiny bathroom, even stepped out on the fire escape. Whoever was there vanished like ghosts. The night air made Bucky shiver. Defeated, he walked back to his own place, resting his throbbing head against the door.

 _I’m not crazy_ , he reassured himself. _I’m not_.

He grabbed his jacket, some loose change, and raced out into the starry darkness. The streets were mostly empty, glistening beneath the streetlights. The air smelled like rain. He quickened his pace to get to the payphone, furtively watching over his shoulders.

He put in his change and dialed the only number he had memorized.

“Rogers.” The voice answered tiredly.

“It’s me.”

“Buck?”

Bucky could hear the uptick lilt in his tired tone. He closed his eyes, savoring it. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, no,” Steve cleared his voice, trying to fight the grog out, “I wasn’t asleep. What’s up?”

“I know you’re not on the clock right now—” Bucky grimaced. It was still hard to wrap his head around that Steve took up a job with the New York City SSR branch. “But do you think you could come check something out for me?”

“Oh.” Did he imagine the disappointment in Steve’s voice? Was Steve hoping it was more of a social call? “Everything okay?”

“There’s something,” he took a deep breath, “there’s something weird going on in my apartment building.”

“Weird _how_?”

“I don’t know, there’s this voice, it comes through the wall.”

Steve took a moment to consider it. “Like…from next door you mean?”

“Yeah, except no one lives next door.”

“What about Winston—”

“I moved.” Silence filled the line, and it exchanged a lot more between them than words could have in that moment. There was a tightening in Bucky’s chest. “It’s my first night here and I was told no one lived there, but there’s a voice coming from the other side of the wall. I don’t know what they’re saying, I’m pretty sure they’re not speaking English. But here’s the thing, I snuck in and there was no sign of anyone.”

“Homeless people, maybe?”

“That was my first thought, but I busted in there seconds after I heard the voices and there was no one in sight. No one moves that fast. And nowadays, who knows what we’re dealing with, right?” Images of Red Skull flashed through his head.

Images of Steve and his lightning quick movements, his enhanced skills—and scientists manipulating the present to become an advanced future—came next. Along with a peculiar ache in his stomach.

Bucky sighed, twirling the phone cord around his fingers. This was Steve, Steve wouldn’t laugh at him. Would he? He took a deep breath.

“I think maybe there’s someone _inside_ of the wall. When I put my hand against it, I can literally _feel_ them speaking.” Bucky heard the sound of a drawer snapping shut.

“Give me your address. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“I don’t want commotion, all right? If my landlord thinks I’m unstable—or worse—if he’s doing something fishy—”

“I’ll come alone.”

“As Chief Rogers?”

“Would you prefer Captain America?” He snorted.

“I prefer Steve.” _Always Steve._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was completed with the first, but i've been sitting on it for an entire month, because, well, if you soldiered through my long rant on the last chapter, you'd know i was struggling with plot. and i discovered i don't like this as much as i did while outlining. but i don't want to leave it unfinished so here you go.
> 
> those russian words were (hopefully) bucky's trigger words! mostly in order:  
> longing, rusted, seventeen, daybreak, furnace, but then it jumps to homecoming. thanks for reading <3


End file.
